


and I will dine with you

by C_A



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Sex, Comfort, Confessions, Drunkenness, Feeding, M/M, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_A/pseuds/C_A
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reuniting with the other half of his spark after so long is the easiest adjustment of the soon-to-be-Prime's new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I will dine with you

Someone touches his back, a cool hand on his shoulder, fingertips along his wrist, and it seems as if each time he turns to greet them someone has filled up his glass of high grade. It is thicker and sweeter than anything he has ever tasted, a sharp tang and bitter aftertaste that leaves his intake dry with each swallow. Mechs and femmes who would never look at him twice if they passed by on the same street flock to him, always touching his hands, asking for a moment of his time, offering congratulations and adulation.

Megatron's hand braces his back, a dense square of something balanced in his clawed servo. "Here. You need to eat something if you plan on drinking so much."

He takes it between fingers, careful not to crush the crumbly food. "What is it?"

"Gelled energon, tinted with flight fuel. You'll feel more steady on your feet."

"Thanks - thank you." Formal wording is beyond him on his best days, and now it is deep into the evening and he's had what is most certainly more than two cubes of high grade, which is two more than he's ever had in his life. He has to work it between his denta despite the softness, and it floods his mouth with heat and leaves behind a pleasant burning sensation. "Mmm."

A sharp smile presses briefly against his audial. "If you cover your glass with one hand, they won't keep refilling it."

Oh. Well, of course.

The obviousness of this advice is forgotten as evening stretches into night; bots come to him, asking mildly invasive questions about what it was like to work at the docks "with his level of intelligence", what it was like living among common mecha, what it was like living in a small apartment on the edge of town. He does his best to answer their questions truthfully, determined not to betray his roots, and forgets to cover his glass after the first two.

His hands grow heavy and his head grows heavier and it becomes so hard to walk that he stands in once place, pretending to be immersed in the attention of the Cybertronian elite. Government officials, important names in energon production and distribution, machinery and tools. He recognizes their names from the boxes he used to unload at the docks, off the sides of equipment that required training to use safely.

His tank is fuller than it has ever been in his life. Megatron wanders by every so often, pushing sour-shelled treats filled with syrupy insides into his hands, more gelled energon, rounded oil cake, unrecognizable things with lead sulfide crystals and iron fillings. He has nowhere to put them, no little dish to set them on when he starts getting full, so he eats them between answers as delicately as possible.

He's just answered another uncomfortable question, swaying on his feet only a little, when his Lord High Protector comes up from behind him, voice as lovely and low as ever. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to steal our new Prime away from you, as we have business early in the morning."

The couple chatter and smile and tell him it's no trouble, bid them goodnight with fluttery little movements, and he finds himself steered towards the far exit. The entire room seems to tilt with the motion and he nearly drops his drink, which is thankfully rescued by Megatron and handed off to a passing guard. "You did well tonight."

Orion thinks that's what he says, but now that he's out of sight he feels his fortitude begin to fail, stumbling slightly. "I - I'm glad. I wasn't sure."

It's a battle to keep his optics on, keep his body moving forward. He'd never realized one could even be overfueled before this. "What work do we have in the morning?"

As they near their private quarters, Megatron says, "there is no work. You simply looked as if you needed a rescue, and it is late enough I could justify leaving."

"Oh," Orion says, before his legs fold underneath him. He's lucky the other mech is so much bigger than him, since he simply scoops him up from his fall and carries him the rest of the way into their room, kicking the door closed. His body is overheated, venting in great big pulls of air, imbalanced under the weight of drink and food. When Megatron sets him on his feet and touches his face, he leans forward and pushes their mouths together in a kiss, tugging at the collar flaring to get closer. Very quickly he finds himself yanked up against the silver-gray chassis, and his body is so hot with want he pulls himself up and wraps his legs around the other's waist, grinding his panel down.

Orion hears his name, his _new_ one; he feels the soft give of memory foam under his back, and drops off into exhausted recharge.

 

He wakes up to find Megatron laying next to him, awake and watchful. His helm only aches slightly, his body has processed the fuel enough that he no longer feels ill from it, but the memories of what he'd done - how he'd acted with the mech who'd only tried to help him through the evening - flood his mind and he rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the berth.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles through softest padding he's ever laid on. It probably costs more than his apartment did.

A heavy hand cups the back of his neck. "For what?"

"I - I did not act how I wished I had, last night."

"Why? Because you got drunk when every bot within spitting distance kept filling your glass even when there was no need?"

He says nothing, aware that he's acting foolish but unable to summon the will to face the other.

Megatron's voice is almost gentle when he asks, "Because when we kissed, you spread your legs as if you wished for my spike?"

Orion jerks his head up to stare him down, determined to face this mortification properly. The hand on his neck turns to cup his face, the clawed thumb stroking his cheek.

"Would it help if I told you I wished for your spike as well?"

His faceplates heat up instantly, vocalizer mute with shock. He'd expected - well, at the very most, that his Lord High Protector would wish for his valve, first of all, and second of all... "I didn't think I did very well last night, meeting the - the important bots."

The look he receives is warm and sympathetic, and a little amused. "I wasn't lying to you, my Prime. You did very well. They are a nightmare to deal with."

 _My Prime_. He ducks his head down at the words, fighting a smile, before sliding across the berth and into the other's arms. He tucks himself up against the large chassis and Megatron curls around him, resting his chin atop the new Prime's helm. He offlines his optics, lets the EM field blanket his own as he settles into the warm body. "I missed you."

It's nonsensical, and it's true. He has spent his entire life working day and night at the docks, unloading and carrying and starving, his body breaking slowly under neglect and demand. Every second of spare time was spent reading, desperately filling his processor with as much knowledge as he could so that he might climb into the rank of a data archivist. He spent vorns watching friends and associates work themselves to death, wanting more than anything to stop the flow of quiet misery and resignation. He had been tired and alone, and now he wasn't anymore.

Megatron's engine starts up quietly, a low rumble of pleasure as he trails his thick claws up and down his Prime's backstrut. "I missed you, too."

The beginnings of sunlight have not even filtered through their windows, yet. They have the next three days off, to acclimate and grow comfortable with each other, before the ceremony for the Matrix takes place. In three joors, the chief medical officer will knock on their door and demand to look the Prime over, where he will check still-healing injuries and chastise the Lord High Protector for letting him consume sweets and alcohol instead of proper fuel. Half a joor after that, the head of security, resident weapons expert and military strategist will all try to introduce themselves to their Prime at the same time and spend more time squabbling than talking. They have vorns of work ahead of them, unraveling the tangle of politics the previous leaders have left them, cleaning up the mess of the Senate, putting safety regulations and labor laws in place for workers.

But that work is not for today. Today, they simply rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to StarlightCaptivator for helping with the editing.


End file.
